The situation was hopeless, no matter how he looked at it. Maybe he should just let her go as she wanted.
His arms tightened around her, his whole being rejecting that thought. This caused her to move finally, squirming in protest at the strength he was applying. He immediately loosened his hold, his hands soothing her again, caressing her back, her hair, her cheek— which was dry
Stefan frowned and tilted her chin up. "Where are your tears?"
"What tears?"
"The ones that should have left gray streaks along your cheeks."
"Oh, those tears," she said with a shrug. "I wiped them off."
"Liar."
"Well, that makes two of us, doesn't it? No, don't start scowling at me again. You want tears, get a stick. On second thought, that probably won't do it either. My tears dried up years ago when I figured out that Dobbs liked the sound of them."
"What has that to do with—"
Her laughter cut him off. "You seem to forget where you found me, Stefan. I'm not saying my life with Dobbs was all hardship and misery. It wasn't. But my defiant nature did bring frequent beatings. That tends to harden the soul, as well as the flesh."
He paid less attention to what she was saying than he did to what it meant. She hadn't cried. It was doubtful that he had even hurt her a little bit.
He asked her as much. "Did that spanking even hurt you?"
"Certainly." His eyes narrowed, so she added, "Well, not much."
He stood up so fast, she was dumped on the floor. "Of all the... what I went through. damned impudent wench! So your skin is as tough as hide, is it?"
"Are you going to get a stick now?"
"No."
"Then what are you ranting about? I got your point. You don't think I want to go through that again, do you?"
"Why not?" he replied with dripping sarcasm. "You didn't feel it."
"I felt it," she grumbled as she picked herself up off the floor, starting to rub her backside, then thinking better of it. "It just wasn't as disabling as what I'm accustomed to."
Stefan stiffened, the rest of what she had said clarifying in his mind. "Jesus, he beat you?" She blinked at him as if she didn't understand the question, so he rephrased it. "Did Mr. Dobbs beat you, Tatiana?"
"I thought I already said as much. I also told you I don't like that name."
"Devil take the name!" he snapped irritably. "How did Dobbs beat you?"
"Now, what difference does that make? A stick, a hand, the intention is the same — to hurt me."
There was a wealth of bitterness in that statement that Stefan understood very well. Bitterness was his own constant companion.
"I'm sorry for adding more unpleasantness to your life, Tanya. It was not my intention to hurt you—"
"You could have fooled me," she snorted.
"— merely to impress upon you not to try to leave us again."
"So consider me impressed."
She wouldn't even allow him to assuage his conscience with an apology. Just as well. He didn't want to forget what his temper had wrought this time. If she had not learned a lesson, hopefully he had.
"It is intolerable what you have suffered through fate," he told her with feeling. "You were supposed to be reared gently. A fortune was sent with you and Baroness Tomilova to ensure it. She would have trained you, thoroughly, in the duties that await you as Queen of Cardinia, the etiquette of court—"
"If you don't want another fight on your hands," Tanya interrupted coldly, "then do us both a favor and end the pretense for now. I've heard all I can stomach of that fairy tale for one day."
"Very well — if you will tell me why you don't believe it."
"Because things like that don't happen. A lost princess, Stefan? Like hell. How can you misplace someone as important as a princess?"
"Through secrecy and neglectful assumptions. Communication was forbidden because it could have led to your death. It was assumed you were being cared for in the manner that your status demanded. And you would have been told how to obtain help if something had happened to the baroness. But how could anyone know that she would die before you were even old enough to know who you were?"
"You've got a ready answer for everything, don't you?" she retorted angrily.
He smiled at that burst of temper. "Such is usually the case when one is dealing with the truth."
"Enough!"
He laughed now. "Very good, Princess. You have a definite knack for command, at least. You will learn the rest soon enough."
She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him, an affectation, he supposed, meant to silence him on the subject. And he was silenced, not by that, but by finally noticing that her shirt had been so dampened by his that it was now clinging quite provocatively to her breasts. Fortunately, they were just barely covered. The last thing either of them needed right now was for his damn lust to run amok again.
"I — ah — believe I need a bath to get the filth of your river off me," he remarked and turned toward the door to summon Sasha.
"My river? Are you admitting I'm American?"
He glanced back with a grin. "You think you are. I know differently. Now, would you by any chance like a bath also?"
"No," she staunchly maintained.
"Then a change of clothes?"
"Are you offering to swim back and fetch mine?" she asked with a falsely sweet smile.
"Oh, clever, Princess, but I think I must decline. You may, however, feel free to avail yourself of my wardrobe. Since your taste in attire seems to run toward the masculine, that should prove no hardship. Once we reach New Orleans, we will have you outfitted properly."
"In dancing costumes?" she sneered.
"I don't know where you get these intriguing notions, but that one definitely has merit. If I had known you wanted to dance for us again, I would have spared the time to bring your own costume along. You will, however, have a captive audience, no matter what you choose to dance in. Wearing nothing at all would be even better."
She looked so furious at being misunderstood, Stefan left the room quickly before he burst into laughter again.
Chapter 16
As soon as the door closed behind Stefan, Tanya rushed to it to see if Stefan would forget to lock it. At the sound of the click, she kicked the door in frustration — and heard his laughter on the other side.
Damned devil. His mercurial moods were going to drive her batty. Right now she didn't like his humor any better than his temper. Dance for them indeed. On his grave maybe.
She whipped around and began to pace, feeling caged and suddenly desperate. What if they didn't let her out of the cabin until they arrived in New Orleans? Then she wouldn't have a chance to escape, would she? It was that simple.
Like hell. She wasn't about to settle for no options when the stakes were so high — her freedom, her dream of independence. There had to be something she could do, anything, even... no, she wouldn't go that far. Sleeping with Stefan was no guarantee of his trust, or of her release. She would do better to lull them into thinking she was resigned — no, not them, just Stefan, since he obviously made the decisions where she was concerned. She had to convince him that she could be trusted to leave the cabin. The question was, how?
Her eyes lit on the trunks against the wall, which she supposed were his. Well, that was one place to start, by accepting his suggestion to use his clothes, a new shirt anyway. She could also stop fighting with him, and stop letting every mention of kings and betrothals rile her so. And it wouldn't hurt if he thought she couldn't swim. That at least would make him think he had nothing to worry about other than her causing another scene for the entertainment of crew and passengers.